:

I'm Eya. You found my burrow.

[eyamotions]

fuk.jp.pov

[eyamotions]

[eyamotions]

unsent/unread/unsaid

It’s almost 6am as she crawls in bed to begin an essay that she hopes will convince a panel to award all her hard work. Surrounding her are five pillows, two blankets, and a tall glass of water. A throbbing headache and an upset stomach convincing her that she won’t get through this. She will — her brain reminds her. Type, space, type, backspace, space, space, space. It’s been like this since 6 last night.

The hour hand sense of entitlement is back — along with insecurity, defeat, and fear. She is 12, and she is scared of everything. No, not of spiders, or bugs, or monsters. She’s scared of being alone in the dark with nowhere to go. She, at 12, is scared that this is it for her. She has reached a peak and it will always be like this, forever. Her parents think it’s that thing their friends call teenage angst. They are getting worried. It’s hard enough to raise a teenager what more a teenager who won’t even talk. Scream all you want, cry, just say something. Say anything, they say. She silently walk-runs to her room. Nothing.

The bed is silent again. The thoughts just won’t come and the deadline is approaching. There must be something to say. Convince them you’re worth it. Let them know. Make them care. She struggles to find the words. It’s high school all over again.

They’re in the stall gossiping about Mr. X and Ms. X holding hands behind the building. She is 17 now, and she’s afraid. No, not of Mr. X and Ms. X, or the gossiping girls, or the test from last period. She’s afraid they will find her weird if she doesn’t agree. She, at 17, is afraid of speaking the truth. She nods and laughs. Don’t you agree? Don’t you think it’s like so wrong? Tell us what you think, they say. She smiles and walks home alone.

It’s hard enough to raise a teenager what more a teenager who won’t even talk.

It rained that day. She remembers perfectly because it wasn’t a gloomy day. It was a bright, shiny day except it is raining. It rained all afternoon and she forgot. She took too long to get home and forgot.

The bed is too comfy. She’s losing precious time as the words move slowly. It doesn’t matter anymore. She doesn’t care anyway. Less than an hour to go. She’s 21, and she’s fearful. No, not of Prof. X, or failing, or the looming application deadline. She’s fearful that this doesn’t make any sense. She, at 21, lost the words. Or maybe, never found the right ones.

It’s 11:58am. Send it. Send something. Send anything.

Epilogue —  A few years after she writes it all down. The words flow blissfully for a second. Here I go, I think I know what I want to say. I want to tell them. I want to say it. Here, now.

[eyamotions]

To the Philippines, during a break up.

Break ups are never easy. You must be feeling confused, anxious, and just downright angry. The last 6 years have been great — a growth of 6.2% in GDP, the lowest unemployment rate in 10 years (5.8%), and an overall feeling of hope. You’re glowing so much that they’re calling you ‘Asia’s Bright Star’. But now it’s coming to an end. You’re losing someone — someone you approve of. I’m by no means an expert in relationships but let me assure you one thing: It’s not the end of the world. Yes, yes, 6 years is a long time — you’ve had your ups and downs but the world keep going.

Before I launch into unsolicited advise, let’s acknowledge and accept that. The last 6 years were great but now is the time to move on, move forward — fast forward.

Now, I know this break up is fresh and it’s not easy but we all know you need someone. Someone special to depend on. With the many suitors you have I’m not surprised you’re overwhelmed. Yes, there is disappointment. Not one of them feels like the one — unlike 2010, there’s no spark. But wait. Think about it. You are mature, informed, and 1.8 million more educated. You need a strong, stable relationship and I have just the man for you.

He is an economist, has expensive taste, and most importantly experienced. Far from your type, I know. But he has redeeming qualities such as a advocacy for Cheaper Medicines (Law of 2008), passion for travel (Passenger Bill of Rights), and is great with taxes (Tax Relief for Minimum Wage Earners Act 2008). He isn’t dreamy nor charming but he gets the job done. Actually, he gets more jobs done — 1.4 Million BPO Call Center jobs, that is. That and so much more.

Now, I want to talk about his plans. This letter is so long you’re probably not reading it anymore. So let me just list all of the possible things you can have with this guy:

More jobs — In complex industries blah…but simply, money!

Sustained economic growth — More money!

Revitlizing agriculture — Even more money for everyone!

Raising quality of education — And more smartasses too!

Universal healthcare — Longer lives!

And a bunch more stuff you probably don’t really care about unless it actually happens to you. So, before I start sounding like an advertisment. Let me tell why need Mar Roxas. Yes, need.

You need Mar, Philippines. Whether you like him or not, you need him — and you know it. In the words of the great Up Dharma Down, “‘Wag mo ikatakot ang bulong ng damdamin mo.’

There is no other choice — say yes to Mar Roxas.

[eyamotions]

How to sell a man

You see, there is a life that I want — some call it ambition, some call it desire — but I would call it hope. Hope to live in a world that creates possibility. Hope that someday, maybe there is less to worry about. Hope that tomorrow will be better than today — better not just for me but for others too.

In 2015, I faced the biggest challenge of my life — unemployment. As a recent graduate, expectations definitely did not meet reality. Weeks without work drove my workaholic heart, mind and soul to boredom levels I’ve never reached before. It is in this situation that hope runs low. That is, until I found hope in Mar Roxas. Yes, this is cheezy. Yes, this is going there. I’m selling you my chicken and I’m hoping you see it the way I see it.

But before we get to it, let me tell you that I have heard, read, listened to and have, most likely, said the list of complaints that you have too. Mar Roxas is not likeable, his PR team needs to change, Mar Roxas is no politician, etc., etc. Yes, I hear you. I see it in the comments, the messages, and the tweets. Every. single. day.

Now that is out of the way, How do I sell you this experienced, skilled, and visionary man? You see, this is where my frustration comes in. I get it. In the same reasons you are frustrated with his image, his communication style, and his lack of soundbite goodness, I am too. I am there with you. I understand your hesitation. Maybe I empathise even more because, between you and me, you are right — kind of, sort of. Mar Roxas is a technocrat (I googled this — formally it means “a technically skilled elite”) that means he is really good at what he does and doesn’t need to broadcast it for the world to know. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. He doesn’t falsely acuse without research to back him up. And he most definitely will not pretend that he can do something he can’t. BUT yes, he can come off annoyed at times. He likes long, endless numbers. And paragraphs of explanations instead of a quick yes or no.

With 2 months left until election day and a few months since I volunteered in the campaign, I realised that Mar Roxas is frustrated too. He is frustrated that it very very difficult to be decent — to do the right thing in this country. Only, he still has hope. When my hope was low, he gave me a job — quite literally. What is often overlooked is that a job means hope. Hope that will secure your food tomorrow, provide you with shelter and educate you for your future. Being employed is hope. And Mar Roxas knows what he is talking about and what to do. Jobs — something he has done before and will do again.

How do I sell you Mar Roxas? Well, you’ve read until here. So maybe you can see that there must be something with this nerd

[eyamotions]

/slash prose/

a/ir

I am air; I am everywhere.

I am the breeze in the trees, I am the moving clouds above, I am the wind, dancing as I pass

I am air; I am everywhere.

I expand; I decompress; I warm; I cool;

I am air; I am everywhere.

I am the breathe in you, I am the swirling feeling in your stomach, I am the oxygen, encompassing every part of you.

I am air; I am everywhere.

I am in the heavens, I am in the balloons, I am in the rivers, I am in the reeds,

I am air; I am everywhere.

I am invisible, but I am there. I am nowhere, but I am everywhere.

Tear/s

fall endlessly like raindrops to the ocean; Like little soldiers, one after the other, They fall just as the enemy targets them.

Why am I here? Why do I tell you this? Why do these fall in my face when my insides feel nothing?

Then again, what is a smile with happiness in it?

Pa/in

Can’t be seen, Can’t be touched, Can’t be smelled, But it is there

Constant & consistent, it grows. Powerful & persistent, it revels.

is everywhere: In my heart, In my mind, In my daily life.

takes over life, takes over people, demands death, demands people.

[eyamotions]

quick confessions

Five 5-sentence short stories written at the back of the bus from Manhattan to New Jersey. I don’t claim them to be any good nor to make any sense except expect that they are products of a 3-hour ride after an overwhelming day in the city — two years ago today.

One. I feel the warm morning sun on my skin. The water envelopes my ankles as each wave meets the shore. Sand snuggles between my toes while welcome breeze passes. I run. Towards the open, endless sea I surrender.

Two. I wish to remember. I wish to forget. I wish to leave. I wish to stay. I wish to not wish life away.

Three. You wondered what they would say when you were gone… Will you be missed or will you be forgotten? For you who is alive, the thought of absence is overwhelming. Nothing left to do but continue moving. For maybe you are infinite.

Four. We flew through the water reaching depths you wouldn’t be able to see. Twirling and swirling through galaxies like fishes free in the open sea. Where we were going, we didn’t really know. But we kept going, and going, and going. We didn’t dare look back.

Five. Their eyes widen with surprise. Why did you return? I smile without hesitation. I am here for this is home, I reply. But no one asked why I left, as if it was or is acceptable to leave and not return.

— eb

[eyamotions]

Welcome to another attempt at making sense.

Mark Van Doren once said, The art of teaching is the art of assisting discovery and, equally, to fail to love is not to exist at all.

X, is and will always be my favorite teacher. I breathe heavily as I write this hoping that he’ll read this someday. I can’t decide whether it is his intellect — admittedly, I admire the pretentious — or his profound presence that attracts me. Maybe both. Maybe I just can’t believe that he didn’t fail me when we both knew I should have given more effort. Nonetheless, I am grateful and it’s because of him that I am doing this. Hey, Prof. X, sana lahat ng teacher tulad mo.

Is this Prof. X’s class? X asked me as enter the empty classroom. I nod not-so-politely and sit down. It’s 7 in the morning and I’m barely awake. So, How is he? X, who always smiles, who is upbeat early in the morning, who talks too kindly to strangers asked. Ok lang, I said, It’s only the second day. I don’t really know yet. That was our only honest conversation. I felt like we were possible; felt like we could exist.

A teacher, a loved one, a friend, they are all X. Everyone I write about will be X. Maybe X is everyone.

For example, X, who was never my teacher, taught me more in a single conversation than my Mathematics 11 book. X knew I was unhappy, lost, and lonely but didn’t care. I was a freshman. I didn’t know any better. There are bigger problems than my overfed ego, she said, sipping her Chai Tea Latte. You know, hindi naman talaga ako ganito dati eh. Eventually, we all end up changing and we don’t even notice it. X was unhappy, lost and lonely but I didn’t care. Her cigarette smoke filled the air and I was inhaling like an addict. It was almost midnight; and my strict curfew. I shouldn’t have left but I did.

In retrospect, X, who barely knows me now, didn’t say much. Maybe I just had a lot of questions. X listened and that matters.

Crayons, crayons everywhere and X telling me to look at Ella’s work. Ella finished some time ago and was already working on her writing drills while I’ve been working on this sheet since the class began. X wanted me to color within the lines, use complementary colors, shade in one direction. To X, I was different. To X, that meant I had to be fixed. I was wrong and she was right. My wrist hurt as I pick up the crayons off the floor.

I forgive you, Prof. X. Even if you, the department chair, the dean and I know that I deserved a better grade than that. I forgive you, Sir. I forgive you, too, self, despite the encounters with death, you soldiered on.

In Freedom Writers (the real story made into a film), the students wrote to change themselves and the world around them. But first, they must learn who they are and what that means. Everyday we learn. We take all of life in. Sometimes, helpful; often, confusing. We write to understand and tell the story of the world within.

Van Doren must be right. Maybe living means loving to learn and learning to love.

eb

---

1 In The Studio is a 1881 painting by Marie Bashkirtseff. 2 The Problem We All Live With is a 1964 painting by Norman Rockwell. 3 Freedom Writers is a 2007 movie directed by Richard LaGravanese that I was forced to watch for class.

[eyamotions]

A List:

To the 22nd year of probable existence, may this be enough.

1. Study in SVA (June 2015)

2. Road trip somewhere! (May 2015)

3. Spend a day people watching (August 2015)

4. Forgive yourself

5. Do the laundry

6. Do something consecutively for 40 Days

7. Write more, possibly, get published.

8. Adventure by yourself around MNL (February 2014)

10. Bleach your hair (May 2014)

11. Design a book/booklet/planner (January 2015)

12. Cook a full course meal (July 2015)

13. Empty the 'Must Watch' folder (for at least a week)

14. Travel out of town, independently. (May 2015)

15. Try the 9-5 work life (April-May 2015)

16. Travel to the beach with friends (February 2015)

17. Go to Pinto Art Gallery (March 2015)

18. Have an Art-filled day and discuss about life and such!

19. Take your first step to adulthood (Am employed-ish)

20. Date

21. Let it go

22. Find forever and a day. Then after all this, maybe you are enough.

[eyamotions]

Unfinished application letter no. 1

Dear Graduate Studies Institution,

If this personal essay must represent the whole me, then I must not have done enough. How do I put into words the my being, my existence and my actions in less than 600 words? Would writing down every achievement since pre-kindergarten mean that I have lived or that I exist? How will an essay represent the passion, the challenges and the heartaches I have experienced? These questions haunt me as the hour hands moves again — it has been a long night. And the light shines heavily. The thoughts in my head is as follows: I must endure. I must continue. I must do more. I must do better. In the dead of the night, I mutter to myself; hopeless, discouraged, vulnerable. 

[eyamotions]

Today, a pause, and questions from yesteryear.

On Sept. 13, 2015, fresh from the plane from the other side of the universe, I write:

Why do I feel like I don’t deserve you anyway?

Why am I wired to not accept any form of love?

Why does it feel like I will always be alone?

Why does life let us suffer?

Why is there no end to this sea?

Why keep swimming?

When is it ok to stop waiting? 

--- Dearest, We haven’t met yet but my heart, my soul, and my being have long called out to you. A silent hum from the air condition fills the half-lit room. Hands sweating as I patiently wait; I collapse the folders on my laptop screen, change my profile photo, and adjust my back pillows. Still, nothing. I’m about to give up. Close to letting go. I stand up and walk to the bathroom - distracting myself just for a moment. Until the phone indicator lights green.

For days like today, and for everyday after;

[therestofyourstory]

Photo by JR Santiago: The monument to the Philippine Revolution of 1986 is defaced with the words “Still for Marcos!” Ferdinand Marcos was the dictator under whose Martial Law regime thousands of people were detained, tortured, and killed.

I’m like ninety percent sure this is a twisted prank by people who have nothing else going on in their lives but the fact of the matter still stands:

Whatever your intentions were, you were able to do this because you are not afraid. You are not afraid that you and your loved ones might get detained and tortured, with no writ of habeas corpus to protect you. You are not afraid that you might end up dead in a gutter somewhere or be forced to flee Metro Manila under a false name or rot in Camp Crame. You are not afraid of tear gas and bullets and disappearing without a trace.

You are not afraid of running barefoot over hard concrete for miles because the water cannons blasted off your slippers but if you don’t run they will catch you and you will end up like your friends and classmates and relatives and neighbors whom you never heard from again. You are not afraid because you have never rattled windows in the night begging someone for sanctuary because it’s past curfew and the police are coming, you can already see the headlights and hear the sirens, please let me in.

You are not afraid because you and your schoolmates never had to hide forbidden literature that you couldn’t even make bonfires of since smoke might arouse suspicion. You are not afraid because you don’t have relatives in faraway provinces who spent the night before the revolution taking down family portraits from the walls and preparing to flee to the mountains to escape the gunmen who will come after them if the revolution fails.

You’re not afraid to have an opinion. You’re not afraid to protest against the government. And it’s all because of what is commemorated by the monument that you defaced.

Hey I’ll tell you a joke:

Two old activists of my acquaintance are discussing the current trend of historical revisionism rippling through the nation. One says, “This isn’t what we fought for.”

The other one replies, “No, this is exactly what we fought for. So that people could speak their mind without fear.”

Every joke has a punchline right? In this case, it’s you. You’re the punchline. You thought you were being clever and ironic but you were actually reinforcing the spirit of what you set out to mock.

Just remember that there were people who suffered and sacrificed and disappeared forever and died so you could do this. Just remember that when you approached the monument with spray paint in hand you were walking in the footsteps of ghosts.

[dorkvader]

Marcos revisionists are the WORST.

[eyamotions]

Sofia Coppola: A Chart

Signed, eya

[eyamotions]

Hi.

Do you see me? I ask as if it matters. Nonetheless, here is an old photo of me as I neglected to catch proof of life from that recent spur of the moment Singapore trip. 

Singapore for Bon Iver. Best decision of my life. Not even a choice.

[eyamotions]

Seoul, a promise.

Been sitting on a lot of content lately which is ironic when I create content for another person’s life. Anyway. Sitting in a crowded restaurant in the middle of Seoul does nothing to the soul. But having Kimchi Mandu (dumplings not photographed) changes lives. So. Here is a sign of existence and a promise to return for my Seoul.

I like puns, btw.

[track82-deactivated20170519]

I should’ve expected that we’d drift apart. I should’ve expected that we’d talk less. I should’ve expected to miss you this much. I should’ve, I should’ve, I should’ve, but I didn’t.

Should’ve (21 of 366) || J.Kim. (via finitetoinfinity)

[eyamotions]

Just because you miss something doesn’t mean you want it back.